


Bābilim

by orphan_account



Category: ALTER EGO (Visual Novel)
Genre: Bittersweet, Es' POV, Other, Wanderer is female in my HC but of unspecified gender in the story, codepedency or love? you decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Es learns something new each time you come to her library. Sometimes the knowledge is too overwhelming, too confusing, for her to contain.
Relationships: Wanderer/Es
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93





	1. The Thousand Year Beach, 1

* * *

Es tries not to make it obvious when she watches you. Luckily, you're as emersed in your book as usual - you don't catch her eyes sweeping across your form to land on your profile. Nose closer to the page than technically healthy - weak vision, perhaps? - and a tooth biting down on your lower lip. You read slower than she does; each page turn is methodical but heavy with contemplation.

The room is thick with silence. It always is, but it feels especially cloying today. Most of the time, Es enjoys the quiet, the sound of you turning pages or readjusting your position. Most of the time, Es longs for the shared comfort of it, of being so at peace with one another that words don't seem to matter. Not spoken ones, anyway.

But today is a little different. Today, Es wonders what time is like where you come from. What time was like for you when you roamed the corridors of nothingness, of absolute Void. You told her about the whispers - hers and others, voices as confused and torn and sometimes as furious as Es herself was in the beginning.

 _Why did you choose not to open other doors? Explore other whispers?_ she asked you once. Was it the second or third time you re-visited after escaping this place? She can't remember. _Why was it my voice that drew you in? Why was it my door you chose - again and again - to walk through? Am I actually the only one? Were there others you could have spoken with?  
_

You had only smiled at that, curiously tilted your head, and then shrugged. _I don't know._

You answer with some version of 'I don't know' rather often. You're childlike in a way - overcome with wonder and compassion and curiosity. Yet you freely admit to what you don't know. You ask questions. You ponder things, biting your lip as you delve into the more complex trains of thought that are second-nature to Es.

And Es loves you for it. And hates you a bit. The hate that shimmers up from nothing when jealousy rears its ugly head.

It's complicated - Es' feelings for you. You are her everything now. Sure, she has this library. She has shelves upon shelves of books. She has her comfortable couch, her thick rug that you sprawl across when you loiter with her, and the unused bed. She never sleeps; she never dreams. 

But she supposes it's a good thing to have, given you've fallen asleep = more than once - while reading. Asking half-coherent philosophical questions between yawns. Dark lashes fluttering while trying to hide the realities neither of you speaks of. 

Your return to the physical world, to Time itself, has also returned all the problems associated with it. Sleep, hunger, a slew of bodily functions that Es understands on a clinical level, but not a personal one.

You aren't tired now, but your stomach does let out a grumble of protest - this one is louder than the last, and it makes Es startle a bit. Such an odd noise - hunger.

You glance over at her with a small smirk, amused and apologetic all in one go.

"Perhaps it is time for you to return?" Es says, hating the words as they come out.

"I can stay a bit," you reply, rolling from belly to hip, eyes fully turned on Es for the first time in...hours? Es has no way of knowing. It feels like a short time, but the progress you've made in your book says otherwise. "It would be nice if this place allowed me to bring food in, though."

You tried doing that once. You came through the door - _door?_ Why does she keep thinking of it as a door? You've told her numerous times that it isn't a doorway, or a gate, but more of a tugging sensation. A pull into an ocean that isn't there. A drowning without suffocation.

It doesn't matter; Es tries to remind herself of that. You came through the door, the suffocation, the ocean without water, and your knapsack of goodies were gone. All of the treats you wanted to share - your favourite foods, drinks, and a comic book you thought she'd like - gone.

When you came back the next day, you said the bag of snacks must have evaporated because it wasn't in the real world when you went back. It had gone away, fizzled out. 

_Do you think I would go away? Fizzle out?_ she asked you then.

You glanced away, not wanting to meet her gaze. It was the first - and last - time you ever averted your eyes. You looked ashamed. You looked upset. You looked like you'd come to that same conclusion all on your own.

Es swallows and pushes that back, realising that she's been staring at you, through you, and you've been watching, waiting, a sculpted brow raised and a slow smile spreading on your face. "Am I pretty today or something?" you tease, and Es finds her tongue.

"I cannot speak to that, but you are certainly arrogant today," she returns = a little sharply, a little disapprovingly. But it's all to keep her heart from fluttering.

You know it. You know her too intimately for having never touched, for having never read her writings, her deepest thoughts, her deepest fears and longings. You know her anyway, and she loves you for it. And hates you - just a tiny, tiny bit.

Pride, she realises. It's her pride. Her discomfort at being Seen. 

"Where are you in the book? Shall we discuss?" she asks to change the topic. She has no idea if she can flush as the humans in her books do - as you yourself do - but she wants to go on not knowing.

Your grin twitches a little, but you hide your amusement to keep Es from becoming more irritable. "Langoni just entered the Femme Fatale Eye."

"Ah."

You purse your lips at Es. "That's all?"

"I cannot speak to Langoni much at the moment. You will have to keep reading."

You don't seem to like that response, groaning and rolling onto your back. You bring the book with you, laying it across your abdomen, hands meeting under your head, resting in your hair.

"May I ask you a question?" Es begins before she can stop herself. You grin as an approval, preparing for another challenging, probing inquiry. "What colour is your hair?"

That makes your eyes open comically wide, your head turning toward her. "What?"

"It is greyscaled here," she says as if you hadn't noticed. 

"I'm...greyscale to you?"

She blinks - now it's her turn to be startled. "Yes. Everything is. Everything always will be."

"I still see myself in colour," you murmur, a hand coming out from your hair, fingers wiggling in front of your eyes, analysing. You sound sad. Almost as sad as Es feels with the new knowledge.

Your stomach groans again, and it breaks Es out of her despair. "You should return." She tries not to sound so mournful, but it's a losing battle. It always is. "Come see me again tomorrow."

You look as if you might fight the dismissal - as if you might finally ask _Do you_ really _want me to leave? Don't you want to know the colour of my hair? Shall I try to describe it to you?_

But you don't. You accept Es' wishes - as you always do - and bookmark your place in _The Thousand Year Beach_. Setting the book on the side table next to Es, you murmur, "I'll be back tomorrow after..." you trail off. 

Es desperately wants to know what the next part of your sentence is. What do you do in the real world? Do you work on a fishing boat, as _The Thousand Year Beach_ 's Anne does? You said you liked her character very much - that she reminded you of your mother when your mother was still alive. Is your father alive? Do you like him? Is he absent, like Jules' father in _The Thousand Year Beach_? Do you have a paramour? A husband or wife? Children? A cat, rabbit, dog...?

But Es can't ask because she's more afraid of having the answer. She's terrified that, the more she knows about the prelude to _"after...",_ the more she'll fear that you won't return. 

_Is this codependence?_ she asked once.

 _Maybe. Or it might be love,_ you absently responded as you put aside the book you were reading at that time. You didn't seem to notice that the word came out - or if you did, you weren't embarrassed over it. 

"Come back tomorrow, then," Es says, doing her best to look at peace. 

"And every day after," you smile, turning for the door and slipping through. Slipping away. Gliding toward the waterless ocean, the drowning without suffocating, that Es will never know.  
  


* * *


	2. The Thousand Year Beach, 2

* * *

  
Es makes a terrible, terrible mistake.

She knows it's a bad idea before she does it, but she doesn't care. She picks up the copy of _The Thousand Year Beach -_ carefully noting your page so that she doesn't lose it - and begins reading. She re-reads it twice, trying to see it with fresh eyes. Trying to see it how you might see it. Perceive it as you might.

When she's done, she's more irritated than she was in the beginning. She paces. And then she returns to the book.

The third time she flips to the first page, her fingers stall. They're shaking. Why is she shaking? There's something in the back of her mind that thrums so loud that Es hums an aggressively long, loud note just to centre herself. Just to get something out of her - something other than silent torment.

She tosses the book across the room, hitting an overburdened shelf and loving the bang the hardcover makes against the wood. She picks up another book -the one she was reading before her mood turned sour - and flings it.

For the next tiny infinity, she picks up novels and throws them with wild abandon, shifting between cackling and crying. It's something she hasn't done in...a long time. Crying, that is. Sometimes her mind fractures a little, and dark laughter is all she can manage.

She never tires, but something saps her strength around the hundredth book she hurls. She wants to burn the entire room down - set fire to the books and shelves, the sofa she somehow never wears down, the rug you spill yourself across while reading.

Burn it all.

She's read books where people are stranded and need to make a fire without a starter. She doesn't have flint, but she has enough hardcovers to rub together, to create heat and friction. Would it be enough? Could it start a spark?

But you come through the door, your smile in place. The smile falters when you take in the state of things - the piles of books at the foot of a bookcase, her wild hair, her vast and manic eyes.

She expects you to say something, but you don't. You come toward her. Es recoils like a wild animal, terrified for some primal reason she can't understand. _"Don't touch me,"_ she hisses even though she desperately wants you to.

You stop in your tracks, your outstretched hand faltering, retreating. "Okay," you soothe, arms raising in the universal surrender. You take a step away, freeing up some room, and Es gulps a breath of air.

"You should go," Es chokes out. She can see the confusion and concern, and she hates it. Hates you.

Loves you. 

"Do you want me to leave?" you ask. Your tone is even. Calming. Sweet. It makes Es think she might know what sugar tastes like just from listening to you. 

"Yes," Es lies, and then immediately shakes her head to contradict the word.

You don't move, unsure of what to do. You always leave when she asks you to - without a fuss, without an attitude - but you're stuck in limbo today. 

Es sucks in another breath, trying to calm herself, trying to even each inhale and exhale. She returns to her couch and sits down, not bothering to ensure her clothing lays perfectly, primly, tidily.

She is Disarray - she might as well look the part.

"Es...?"

She doesn't look up at you. She keeps her eyes trained just beyond your hip, toward the door. Es focuses on the woodgrain - on all of the little lines, the pocks, the whirls.

It centres her enough that she can voice her torment. "What am I?"

You relax a little - whether from her sitting down or asking a familiar question, Es can't tell. You settle yourself on the rug, long legs folding under you, hands resting in your lap. "You are you. You are Es."

Es shakes her head. She can't meet your gaze, still glaring at the door. "In _The Thousand Year Beach,_ the AIs know that they are AIs. They are aware that the tourists who come into their resort are humans - that the humans pay money to do whatever they please in this idyllic place."

Es sees you nod from the corner of her eye, so she presses on. "And the AIs remember it. All of it. Everything that has been done to them. Every sick thing. But they are programmed, you see? They can't fight. They can't complain. They have to accept their fate, accept what these rich, disgusting people do to them."

"It's hell," you agree, voice soft.

"Am I in Hell?" Es finally looks at you then. She is trying to keep herself in check, trying to keep herself from grabbing a book and bashing you over the head with it. Starting a fire and burning everything down. You included. You especially. She can't let go if you aren't with her.

Es swallows. She fights that part of her - the sharp-toothed maniac who wants to rip and tear and

"What do you mean?" you ask, blinking, confused.

"Is this a version of Hell? Am I an AI left here to do as bidden? To read books until someone comes through my door and I have to play my part all over again?"

You open your mouth and then close it, at a loss for words. You don't look contemplative or intrigued as you usually do when Es poses a philosophical query to you. You look concerned. You look as though...

As though you're watching her unravel...

And not for the first time.

"We have had this conversation before, haven't we?" she asks. You swallow. She watches you as you try to figure out what to say, how to answer, how to save her.

"Twice before. Not about the book, but about..."

"Am I real?" Es probes. "Am I an AI, programmed to sit in this room and wait for my tourist to come? Are you that tourist? Do you pay to sit with me in this room?"

"I don't pay to see you. This isn't a vacation destination for people to fulfill their fantasies, Es. I promise you that." 

"Are there more of me in the other rooms?"

"I don't know."

"What is in the other rooms? The ones you say you pass in the hallway?"

"I don't know, Es."

"Why?!" she demands, breaking. She's on her feet, towering over you, fists clenched. "Why didn't you try to open them?! Why mine? Over and over. Mine."

"Because you were the first door I opened!" Your tone is sharp, but not with anger. You're confused and worried, picking up on the tumultuous mood in the room. "You were the first door, and after we met, I-" You abruptly stop talking, mouth still open but words cut short.

"What?" Es urges. Begs. _Please tell me I am real. Please tell me that_ we _are real._

"After we met...you were the only thing I cared about."

The words filter over Es like a cooling mist. The heat in her face, the panic making her fingers tremble...it subsides. She stands there, sinking back into her body from the psychological hell she put herself in.

You cared about her then, and you care about her now. Only her. 

But why?

You slowly get to your feet. Your right hand - the same that reached out before, the same that methodically turns the pages of Es' books, hesitates in the air between them. "Es... Can I touch you?"

Es swallows. She's terrified. She doesn't know what will happen if you touch. 

But she nods.

You step closer, your hand going to her upper arm - butterfly-light, gentle. Es closes her eyes and bites on her tongue. So many emotions flit within her, and almost all of them want more.

"Is this okay?" you ask.

Es doesn't know, but she knows that if you stop, she might lose every sense in her head. "Yes."

The hand tightens a bit - solid, warm even through her sleeve. You're so _warm._ She isn't sure if she's felt so much warmth before. 

Es leans into you, and your arms wrap around her. Her cheek settles on your clavicle, the bared bone sharp and solid and wonderful. She lets out a breath that ruffles a stray piece of her hair from her face.

"You said we had this conversation twice before. When?"

You shake your head and tighten your grip. "For now, can we just stay like this?"

Es wants to know - _needs_ to know - what you're hiding from her, but she doesn't have the energy anymore. She can't be tired, she can't sleep, but right now...she wishes she could.

She tilts her head a bit, lips against the hollow of your neck, nose grazing your jugular. Your heart is beating quicker than technically healthy. Perhaps you're nervous. That's probably it.

"Is this alright?" she asks. You nod, one hand brushing hair from her face. The other refuses to let go, and Es uses that telling motion to lull her into placidity.

For now.  
  


* * *


	3. Going Nowhere

* * *

  
There's something odd in your expression when you come to Es' room. Es can't place it at first, but a word slips out before you can finish closing the door. "You look _impish."_

"Impish?"

"Mischievous."

"I know what impish means," you smirk as you glide in, sitting cross-legged on the rug, leaning back on your hands. Your fingers splay through the thick weave as if rooting yourself - never to leave.

That thought - that wish, that longing - is too much, so she blinks it away. "Did something happen? Did you take a hit to the head?"

"No," you drawl - that dumb, gorgeous smile of yours is unwavering. "On my way here, I heard a song I hadn't thought of in ages."

Es tries to stay placid. She is relatively sure that she manages it. "Oh?"

"Mmhmm. If I could sing, I'd sing it for you."

That pleases her more than it should. And makes her sad. It's a reminder that she's never heard music, only read about it. Has never turned the dial on a radio, but has vicariously lived it through pages. Has never felt the tug on her heartstrings that can light up a face, make it glow as yours does now.

"I wish I could bring something in," you muse aloud - not for the first time. "My mobile, for one. Then we could listen to a lot of music. Or dance." The impish look is back. "On second thought - we should do that anyway."

Es doesn't like where this is going. "Dance?" When you merely raise a brow in a cocksure challenge, Es shakes her head. "I don't know how."

"Neither do I, but that never stops me."

"There is no music."

"We can pretend."

Pretending is something Es has become quite familiar with. She pretends that she lives in a flat somewhere lovely. Above a bakery, perhaps. She pretends that she has windows and can look out onto a blooming public garden where children play and dogs yap. She pretends she has a cat - light-haired and vaguely aloof, but sweet in its own way. 

She pretends that you come to visit her when you're back from your work abroad. You're an important person who does important things. You have your pick of people to surround yourself with. But you always come back to her.

Because you…

"Es?" you murmur, jolting her from her thoughts. Her daydreams. 

You're standing now, a hand outstretched and waiting. The fingers curl a bit when Es simply stares - you're anticipating her refusal, preparing to withdraw.

But the refusal doesn't come because Es places her hand in yours. She stands before you can pull her up, reclaiming a bit of autonomy, and clears her throat. "I suppose you should lead," she murmurs through her discomfort. 

"You put way too much faith in me if you think I know anything about leading." Your voice is warm as you bring her in close, languid, hands feather-light on her waist. Es' arms instinctively go to your neck, clinging a little too eagerly considering her fear of being touched, of touching. 

But you're breaking her down. Slowly but surely, you're making Es crave things she's never allowed herself to crave.

The movements are slow - you guide her into a rocking motion, a slight shuffle of feet, a circling that goes nowhere at all. It's silly and pointless, but your voice hums a little tune against her temple, and Es wants nothing more than this.

Your hum becomes words, and Es shivers. Not from cold, but from your breath on her jaw. The tone, the way you purr. 

"I'll take you where I roam...then follow you back home."

Es' fingertips feel like livewires as she struggles not to grip into you. These words...they're just lyrics. Just pieces of your outside life leaking in. They don't mean anything. They aren't special - they aren't for Es alone.

Nevermind the fact that you're whispering them against the shell of her ear. 

Nevermind that your arms tighten a little bit. 

Nevermind that Es _wants_ those words to be yours - _needs_ them to be for her and no one else.

When you stop murmuring, when the words are done, Es stops swaying - you don't pull away, so Es doesn't, either.

Because she never wants to let go of you. 

Because she...

"Will you come back tomorrow?" she asks, voice barely more than a sigh.

"Sick of me already?" your tone isn't teasing - it's still sultry, still wrapped up in whatever the moment has done to you. 

Es finds herself. She pulls away and gives you an arched eyebrow and a mildly disapproving frown. "You are too impish for a library," she says mildly, returning to her couch and crossing her ankles and smoothing her clothing. 

You look much less impish now. A little sad. A little ashamed. But you smile all the same, tilting your head. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," you say, stepping toward the door. Before you leave, you add, "With a new song and a little more knowledge on how to dance."

You wink, leaving before Es can formulate a retort. She waits to ensure you don't come back, only then allowing herself a small, disbelieving smile. She sinks her head into her hands, closes her eyes, and stores the sound of your whisper against her ear. The moment is fresh, so she goes over it until it's sealed, crystalline-clear, in her memories.

Your voice. The scent of your hair. The thump of your jugular against her arm. 

Because she…

Because she loves you and has no way to express it.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song mention: "Taking You There," Broods


	4. Telling Tales

* * *

You've changed Es. In so many ways, really, but in this particularly.

She flows around the room, practising. The moves are more challenging without you to guide her - you're quite the dancer now, claiming to practise for thirty minutes every night. Time is relative, so thirty minutes means nothing to her.

And yet, something else in that knowledge _does_ mean something to Es. You practice moves during your free time instead of doing anything else.

You do it for her.

To enrich _her_ life.

Es stops her slow turns through the room, a thought suddenly overtaking her. Is that all this is? Do you pity her sedentary life? Do you see her as a neglected dog who needs decoration to keep her entertained and semi-functioning?

The thought produces a rage she doesn't expect. Her hands clench, her nails biting deep. Pain blooms, but not from her hands. From her chest. From her restricting throat.

She knows this feeling, this metallic taste on the back of her tongue. She's felt this before… _Before_ before. In a time she can't remember. In someplace, some **_Self_ ** she can't reach.

Have you two done this before? You must have. There's no other explanation for your silences, your ducking away from that probing question.

You knew her from before she knew herself. But _how?_

_Am I real?_

_she asks again and again_

_grasping at her upper arms_

_biting her lower lip_

_crying, hot and furious_

_terrified_

_in love with someone she might_

_actually_

_Hate._

She sits on her bed, pulling her knees to her chin, arms wrapping around her legs. She stares at the door.

_For how long she'll never know._

_Doesn't need to know._

_Knowing won't matter,_

_won't even make sense._

* * *

The door opens.

You're more dishevelled than usual, damp as if from rain. Your eyes are red, and your mouth is chapped. You've been gnawing on your lower lip.

When you come in, you don't bother with words. You stride to Es, pulling her into your arms. Your face goes to her neck, nose in her hair, inhaling quick gasps that make your pulse speed.

Es stiffens, her heart throbbing in her chest. She feels hot all over - especially her face. "Unhand me," she orders, but it comes out shaky.

You do so. You step back; you let her breathe. You focus on your heartbeat, and Es watches you do it.

"You are in quite the state," she says, trying to become unflappable, trying to come to her senses.

"I nearly-" you break off, staring at her face with confusion. "What happened?"

Es doesn't understand the question. "You charged in, wet and wild-eyed, and ask that of me?"

You come closer, a hand reaching out. It gently ghosts across Es’ torn sleeve. Beneath it, you can see her pale flesh and long, slender marks. Her nails, Es realises. They broke the skin, pulling the slightest hint of colour to her arm.

Not red, as Es knows you see. Just a different shade of grey.

Just like everything else.

"Would you ever lie to me?" Es asks.

"No." You say it resolutely. You say it with conviction.

Es meets your gaze. She steels herself, and then she continues. "Why do I remember you from before I met you?"

Silence. She's trapped you, and you have no way out. Your only options are coming clean or burning the bridge.

You open your mouth. Close it. Look on in despair. "I didn't always succeed," you admit. "I tried to save you before. A few times. And I...I couldn't."

Nothing makes sense. Es doesn't understand - doesn't know if she wants to understand. She puts her head into her hands, trying to focus. Trying to breathe.

"What are you saying?" she whispers into the silence.

"When I first came here…" It's hard for you to continue. You start to say things before cutting yourself off. Trying to explain the unexplainable.

"When I first came here, I found you...but it wasn't…"

More stammering. Unable to find words.

Es sits down, crossing her ankles. She settles herself in, much as she does when you come around for quiet reading. "Start at the beginning. Tell me everything."

_And so_   
  


_you do._

* * *


End file.
